damn the fickle fingers that pump and pound, contort and gracefully flaunt an endearing vicissitudes, permutations of a most reproachful ambiguity. slight implication of attraction, slight implication of repulsion, i want to see the words written out, spelled in a tongue on paper so that the words meld from dissolution to concrete solution. do not ever whisper when one can yell, you are denying the human inside. speak to me, for ears are mans way of distorting their hearts intention, it is the carcass to dissect deepwithin the heart and head, capping tautological logic and ends ends ends ends. does it matter i love? for it is merely innocence in the flesh. does it matter i think of the midwest queen when my eyes awake, surely she is aware i am between the bars. talk to me, queen.